


People Around You Smiling Out Loud

by queenklu



Series: People Around You Smiling Out Loud [1]
Category: Inception (2010), Inception (2010) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-08
Updated: 2011-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-20 06:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenklu/pseuds/queenklu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>And that’s how it happens. That’s how Tom meets Joe.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	People Around You Smiling Out Loud

**Author's Note:**

> _This fic would absolutely not be what it is without[pennyplainknits](http://pennyplainknits.livejournal.com/), who held my hand and beat out my Americanisms and recorded 16k in a rediculously few number of hours. Written for her [Spring-Fling-a-Thing](http://pennyplainknits.livejournal.com/282656.html), I absolutely had her voice in mind, and I strongly urge you to [listen to the podfic](http://pennyplainknits.livejournal.com/285437.html) if podfic is an accessable medium for you._
> 
>  _Despite the disclaimer, some things are real-ish. This[Inception Shooting Script](http://cdn.nolanfans.com/screenplays/inception_script.pdf) (I have no idea how authentic it is) really does have some [marked](http://pics.livejournal.com/queenklu/pic/000px84d) [discrepancies](http://pics.livejournal.com/queenklu/pic/000qqq9x) from the movie, which I've shamelessly exploited._
> 
>  _The other thing I've nabbed (we like to call this the "folk process") is Joe Gordon-Levitt's determination not to use his stunt men for the spinning hallway, as he talks about in[this interview](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pLX7nsh65e4). (And before you get too worried, he did eventually get to play in the [giant gerbil ball](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Ods23wv4hM&feature=related).) Also the fact that Tom Hardy had [no clue how to ski](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NpZHjyq9vFs)._
> 
>  _FINALLY, really quick primer (because I rarely know real people names unless I'm making them sleep with each other):_
> 
>  _Ellen Page – Ariadne  
>  _Marion Cotillard – Mal  
>  _Dileep Rao – Yusuf  
>  _Cillian Murphy – Fischer  
>  _Ken Watanabe – Saito_____
> 
>  _If you don't know who Michael Caine is, I don't know what to do with you._

Tom is—well. He’s not going to deny it, he’s more than a bit jetlagged when they meet—when he meets _everybody_ —at the first read-through of _Inception_. He doesn’t have a proper excuse for it, other than the absolutely ludicrous number of hours he was awake after video-chatting with the sprog (who has just turned two, so the conversation was a bit one-sided). He knew it was a bit pathetic, staying up watching infomercials while missing a family he wouldn’t see much more of back across the pond, but now Tom has a toaster specifically designed for cooking hot dogs to look forward to in the post, so that’s something.  
   
In any case, his eyes are barely open behind the absolutely ridiculous movie star sunglasses slipping down the overtired flop sweat on the bridge of his nose, and there’s a tepid kind of coffee in his hands but he doesn’t remember ordering or paying for it. His clothes smell like aeroplane for all that he changed and showered twice, though all the shower seems to have done is make it impossible to determine whether or not Tom is clammy as a rotting corpse or just slightly damp with tap water.  
   
And then, materializing from nowhere in front of him, is what appears to be a P.A., wearing a yellow T-shirt so bright it makes Tom want to throw his worthless coffee on the poor boy just to dim it down. He’s also wearing faded blue jeans, and trainers with the thin cloth tongues flipped out over his half-undone laces.  
   
“Are you lost?” the boy asks, and Tom gently corrects the angle of his head so as not to be caught staring at the P.A.’s apparently entrancing choice in footwear.  
   
“No,” Tom says, mildly surprised to find that this statement is true. He can see the paper sign with a carefully printed arrow pointing to a door not too far down the lot. Tom will walk to it, shortly. Any minute now.  
   
“Sorry,” Tom adds, half a grunt, suddenly realizing that the P.A. has not buggered off. “Did they send you to fetch me?”  
   
The boy’s nose wrinkles up the middle as his sweet face breaks out into a beautiful grin, all dimples and straight, white, American teeth, and Tom is struck by the odd feeling that this man has not understood a word of what Tom has just said, only heard the cadence of his grumbly English vowels.  
   
“You gotta be Tom Hardy, right?” he says, and then sticks out his hand, almost aggressively cheerful. “Hi! I’m Joseph Gordon-Levitt.”  
   
“That’s quite a mouthful,” Tom is saying before he can stop himself. It comes out as an awful hybrid of awkward come-on and cold fish, and all Tom can do is watch as some of what looks like sincere happiness bleeds from this poor boy’s eyes.  
   
“So I’ve been told,” Joseph Whosit Whatsit says then, and for a split marvelous second Tom is _sure_ he is being flirted with back—but no, it’s the bloody jetlag talking. Joseph gives Tom’s hand one last shake and lets go. “Call me Joe.”  
   
“Tom,” Tom says, slightly bewildered. Yeah, all right, mostly bewildered. “I’m sorry,” he says, genuinely apologetic, “but are you here for _Inception_ as well?”  
   
“Yeah,” Call-Me-Joe says, one of the middle vowels arching with the shape of his eyebrow. “I’m acting in it.”  
   
Tom has never wished more fervently for a church spire to fall from the sky and crush his head just like what happened to that one poor bloke in _Hot Fuzz—_ though, come to think of it, if this Nolan fellow has it right and Tom is really in some sort of nightmare, a bullet to the brainpan would do the job with half the fuss.  
   
“Oh,” he says instead. The word comes out small, guilty. Maybe Joe is some minor bit part. Maybe he’s Projection #135 and Tom’s fat idiocy can be forgiven in some small print.  
   
“Yeah, no, I’m Arthur,” Joe goes on to say, and almost reaches to shake Tom’s hand again. He’s still grinning, utterly pleasant. It’s unnatural.  
   
And then it sinks in. “Arthur,” Tom says, “Arthur—bloody hell, does he have a last name? Arthur, _Inception_ Arthur?”  
   
Oh shit, buggering _fuck_ , is he actually digging himself a deeper hole for this poor sod to bury him in?  
   
“That’s the guy,” Joe says, hands in his pockets as he rocks back on his heels. His eyes are still scrunched up in the corners like he’s smiling, but he can’t possibly be—Tom has just made such an ass of himself as to forget a fellow cast-member’s _name_ and they haven’t even done the read-through yet. He’s going to be taken out and shot by Equity. And his own mum.  
   
“Sorry, _sorry,”_ Tom fumbles, hands out, one still clutching his increasingly soggy paper cup, “I’m—I’m actually not this stupid in real life, I’m just knackered this morning, sorry.”  
   
And oh, god, what is he doing, why is his accent getting thicker as some sort of shit defense mechanism, now his co-star will think he’s a posh asshole instead of just a stupid one. Fantastic.  
   
“Okay, I caught—‘real life,’” Joe says, “which this is, by the way. You need a totem to prove it?”  
   
“A what?”  
   
“A…totem?” Joe repeats, good-natured smirk slipping. “Like, uh. The top? Mal’s top?”  
   
“Oh. Right,” Tom half-laughs. “Yes,” he adds, picking at the coffee lid with his thumbnail. “This is all just. So method.”  
   
Joe joins him in his awkward hipster nod, which is either very nice or somewhat unsettling. And then, “Think we should go in?” Joe asks, and Tom says, “Yeah, all right, after you,” like he’s some twatty butler or something else more clever that Tom will surely think of when the pounding headache of stupidity subsides.  
   
Joe leads the way, glancing backwards every now and then as if to check Tom hasn’t fallen over his own feet and just not got up again, which is dear but if he doesn’t stop Tom may be forced to take a Cricket bat to his own head. The smiles Tom has to fit on hurt, each and every one of them hot with thinly concealed humiliation.  
   
And that’s how it happens. That’s how Tom meets Joe.  
   
~*~  
   
He had met some of the cast before, during auditions to make sure the chemistry worked, and Cillian he knows from a million years ago when they were in a divey pub-theater production of _Hamlet_ set in 1970s Uzbekistan (for some ungodly reason). DiCaprio they stuffed him in a room with for what felt like a half hour squint-off, Tom slouching low the whole time, confident and unintimidated and not bent on being the one doing the intimidating, either. Being Eames, basically. When their time was up, Tom knew Leo’s middle name (Wilhelm) and his childhood fears (drowning, bears), and Nolan offered him the job on the spot.  
   
Tom met Dileep over a catch-up lunch with Cillian, which somehow turned into pub-crawling at three in the afternoon—though Tom doesn’t drink anymore, which made him their designated walker—and ended with being fished out of the fountain of a fancy hotel by a very flustered desk clerk who had, by some miracle, seen _Stuart: A Life Backwards_ and agreed to let them all go if she could give Tom a quite teary-eyed hug.  
   
But the Powers That Be hadn’t seen fit that he be introduced to the rest of the cast prior to this read-through. Mal and Ariadne, that’s understandable, as he unfortunately has very little to do with them in the film, but with Arthur—Arthur who is fastidiously dressed and coldly intelligent, Arthur who doesn’t seem like he could be farther from Call-Me-Joe if they were on different planets—there are strong, subtle connections that could be fucked over if their chemistry isn’t right.  
   
Oh, all right, if Eames and Arthur don’t quite fit it won’t ruin the film. Tom could cite artistic integrity and get in a snit about how he wasn’t consulted, but the sheer fucking truth of it is this: he would have rather met Joe under any other circumstances than these.  
   
Because now? Now Cillian has Tom in a headlock so fast he drops the coffee on instinct and it splashes over Joe’s ratty-but-probably-triple-digit shoes, and Joe just _laughs it off_ and disappears to the other side of the room to speak with a little brunette who must be their Ariadne, and Tom finds himself thinking hopelessly, _Come back, come back, I will buy you shiny things,_ and he hasn’t felt this pathetic since Mira Duncan beat him over the head with her lunch box when his pet cricket escaped onto her tuna sarnie.  
   
“You—“ Cillian says, all long Irish vowels as he takes a theatrical whiff of Tom’s hair, “—smell like aeroplane and stale coffee.”  
   
“You would know,” Tom shoots back, disarming Cillian long enough that Tom can elbow his way free. Joe is lifting one foot to demonstrate to ‘Ariadne’ just how soggy his trainers are, and she’s making mostly-sarcastic cooing noises (fine, she may stay).  
   
“You all right, mate?” Cillian peers at him, unnaturally blue eyes digging right inside Tom’s skull. “Talk to Cumberbatch recently?”  
   
“Why do you always think Benny is the problem,” Tom sighs as he sheds his jacket and drapes it over the chair with his name on it.  
   
The room is just large enough to be considered ‘intimate’ while holding upwards of forty people, including all the technical types and the various assistants. There’s a long gray table down the middle, place-settings, scripts, chairs all around it and circling the room. Leo seems to be showing Dileep some sort of game on his phone in one corner with another man Tom doesn’t recognize, and oh, look, there’s Michael Caine. Tom hopes _fervently_ that he will never have to say one word to this man, as it will invariably come out as a mash of syllables Tom will then have to pretend was intentional. At least for as long as it takes him to find a gun and shoot himself with it.   
   
“I think you get all droopy when you don’t hear from him,” Cillian says, eyes twinkling. “And I remember a certain very drunk night in Prague—“  
   
“Never happened,” Tom waves off, “And I’ll tell you why—“  
   
“Yeah, and if I told you I have pictures?”  
   
“Jesus Christ, why would you keep pictures of something that happened _fifteen years ago_ , you _nutter._ Here, listen,” Tom says, changing trains of thought entirely before he stops and gives Cillian a considering look. “Fighting Irish?”  
   
For reasons he can’t entirely explain, Cillian is the reason Tom has a Fighting Irish Leprechaun tattooed onto his bicep. Subsequently, the term ‘Fighting Irish’ has somehow come to be the equivalent of issuing a pinky-swear not to tell anyone what’s about to be said between them. Cillian’s arms fold across his chest as he hip-checks the table, slipping on a slightly more serious face.  
   
“Yeah, all right.”  
   
Tom is very careful to keep his voice low, to make sure no one is within eavesdropping distance when he asks, “Why is Arthur being played by an infant?”  
   
“—That’s your hang-up?” Cillian asks, incredulous, louder than Tom would like. “That’s what— Tommy. _Tommy._ I know have trust issues wider than the fucking English Channel but I am asking you to trust that Nolan is a fucking genius, and he would never go with someone who was second best for this, all right? And that includes you,” he adds, “So try not to be an ass about it.”  
   
Tom ducks his head to obscure the wry and dutifully shamed curl of his lips, and thanks every god above that Nolan takes that precise moment to swan in, all American sports jacket and t-shirt, light colored hair swept away from his face.  
   
“Everyone here?” the director asks, “Ellen? Where’s Ellen? There you are, excellent,” he says when ‘Ariadne’ waves. “Why do I feel like we’re missing someone? Tom? Joe?”  
   
“Here,” they call out simultaneously. Tom catches himself staring as Joe huffs a slightly embarrassed laugh and turns the faintest shade of pink.  
   
“I think you’ll find,” Michael bloody Caine pipes up, and Tom’s spine fuses just in time to stop himself from physically shrinking away, “Sorry, I think you’ll find it’s our Miss Cotillard.”  
   
“Please, call me Marion,” a sweet French voice sings out, and she must be their Mal. She is lovely, in every sense of the word, gliding into the room like she’s floating on air, slipping free of her coat as if it were a choreographed dance movement. There’s a little voice in Tom’s head that sounds an awful lot like Benny warning him that if he isn’t careful, he’ll wind up half in love with most of the damn cast. “Being fashionably late is all the rage, yes?”  
   
A chuckle circulates the room as everyone takes their seat. Cillian is delegated to the space between Michael Caine and the man playing Fischer’s deceitful uncle-figure, a vaguely sweaty man who insists on shaking everyone’s hand within his reach. Leo, rake that he is, drops a brief kiss to Marion’s fingertips as he sits down, and it still somehow comes as a shock that there can only be one actor who could fill the seat to Leo’s left and Tom’s sodding right—Joe.  
   
Joe, who plops down and smiles at Tom with all the inherent cold intelligence of a newborn kitten in a basket of fluffy yellow towels, not the best point man in not-strictly-legal dream espionage. Tom smiles back uncertainly despite himself, despite his day, despite his life, because damn it all, Cillian has prodded that bit of Tom’s mind where Benny’s voice lives, waiting to mock his bad life choices and horrible manners.  
   
Nolan, meanwhile, has introduced the man in charge of reading aloud the bits that aren’t dialogue—the blocking, scenery descriptions, etc. (there’s a word for it but Tom can never remember)—and seems to be waiting for the anticipatory hush to envelope the room to the point where everyone is holding their breath. Joe’s knee jiggles out of the corner of Tom’s eye, and he barely manages to stifle the urge to rest his hand on it. He’s not that much of a bastard.  
   
“Dawn. Crashing surf,” their reader beings at Nolan’s nod, “The waves TOSS a BEARDED MAN onto wet sand. He lies there.”  
   
Leo grins a little and waves, which somehow does nothing to ease the tension in the room.  
   
“A CHILD’S SHOUT makes him LIFT his head to see: a LITTLE BLONDE BOY crouching, back towards us, watching the tide eat a SANDCASTLE. A LITTLE BLONDE GIRL joins the boy. The Bearded Man tries to call them, but they RUN OFF, FACES UNSEEN. He COLLAPSES.”  
   
The scene goes on, and Tom zones out a little. He’s read it all before; no yellow highlighter appears in his script until over a dozen pages in, so he takes the time to watch his fellow actors. Whoever they got to play Saito is _good_ , very good. Tom never even saw him enter the room, but there he is, imperious to a fault even as he turns his voice raspy with age. Tom doodles a small, Chinese-style building in the margin of his script, absently.  
   
“What is the most resilient parasite?” Leo-as-Dom asks the room, “A bacteria? A virus? An intestinal worm?”  
   
“A venereal disease?” Tom offers under his breath, too quiet to be audible by anyone, really, especially under the sound of the reader describing Saito’s reaction.  
   
“Uh,” Joe begins, and Tom freezes, caught in the act, “What Mr. Cobb is trying to say—  
   
And… _Oh._ That isn’t Joe at all, except. It must be. No one else was sitting where Joe is sitting, not perched on his lap like something ridiculous. It hadn’t _sounded_ like Joe. But—Tom checks—it’s Arthur’s bloody line.  
   
“An idea,” Dom Cobb is expositing, “Resilient, highly contagious. Once an idea has taken hold in the brain it’s almost impossible to eradicate.”  
   
Tom sits back in his chair to watch Joe work—and he does work, everything about him is different, clearer; no, that’s not the word. There’s an edge to him, and edge to Arthur which Joe doesn’t have. That’s Arthur speaking in the back of his throat like each word has to earn the right to be heard. That’s Arthur in the set of his shoulders like he’s bracing to be struck so he can strike back.  
   
“In the dream state,” _Arthur_ says, “your conscious defenses are lowered, and that makes your thoughts vulnerable to theft.”  
   
Cillian catches Tom’s gaze across the table and arches his eyebrows, smirking behind the hands clasped in front of his face. _Yes, all right,_ Tom shoots back in his own facial expression. He thinks he almost sees Joe glance at him, but there’s no catch in his voice at all when he goes on.  
   
“It’s called extraction.”  
   
Tom catches himself grinning inexplicably, and chalks it up to the general atmosphere of the room, the anticipation that they’re making something great.  
   
~*~  
   
Joe isn’t Arthur the whole way through, not that he should be—when it isn’t his scene he slips effortlessly back into his own skin, which is something fascinating to watch. When Tom-as-Eames drawls, “Arthur…You still working with that stick-in-the-mud?” and the way Joe grins makes Tom’s insides hitch inexplicably, irrationally—most likely due to the fact he hasn’t eaten since the night before—they’re all moments Tom can feel sticking to his skin like new tattoos.  
   
By the end of the read-through he’s starving, and while some part of him knows he could send a P.A. for a sandwich, the thought of being That Actor this early on in the game is enough to curb his appetite until they finish.  
   
“Great job, man,” Joe says over the clatter of chairs. It takes Tom a scattered second to realize that Joe has turned towards him instead of Leonardo DiCaprio, has offered him his hand _again_ , which must be an American thing.  
   
“Oh, ah, yes, thank you,” Tom stammers, pathetically, as he accepts it. “You too, really—excellent job today.”  
   
“Thank you,” Joe says, so sincere and grateful it makes Tom want to stare at him like an exhibit in a zoo. Real People, in Tom’s experience, do not become actors. Or perhaps it’s that they don’t stay real people once they do. “It really means a lot.”  
   
Leo is flirting harmlessly with Miss Marion, which must have been the reason Joe turned his attention this way. “Really?” Tom scoffs, disentangling the collar of his jacket from his scarf. Just to give the boy an excuse to stand here until he can get his In with DiCaprio. “A next-to-unknown Brit still fresh off the boat best known for playing Heathcliff in a BBC production of _Wuthering Heights_? But it means a lot that I think you’re a good actor?”  
   
“Hey, I saw _Bronson,_ don’t sell yourself short,” Joe says, eyebrows high and tight.  
   
 “Shit, fuck, sorry,” Tom gets out before Joe can say anything else, wincing as an instantaneous migraine obliterates everything but pain and mortification. “I’m clearly not fit for human company at present. And shall remove myself forthwith and accordingly and…some such, and go eat something. And hopefully return a much better person for my costume fitting.” His things are all gathered up, coat buttoned, before he risks a hesitant glance at Joe. “You wouldn’t happen to know the closest eatery, would you?”  
   
Somehow, inexplicably, instead of abject horror or irritated disgust, Joe is smiling. Like he’s been caught off-guard by Tom. Damn, what is the line—“ _I’m impressed, Mr. Eames.”_ Tom checks his emotions like a pickpocketed man checks his valuables, but he doesn’t feel condescended upon, not like Eames’ response would suggest.  
   
“Do you like bagels?” Joe asks.  
   
“It depends.” Another glance. “Would you think less of me if I said I could eat five in one sitting?”  
   
Joe looks as if he’s giving the matter serious thought. “At this moment or on any given day?”  
   
“At this moment.”  
   
“Dunno,” Joe shrugs, throwing his coat over his shoulder. “Guess we’ll find out.”  
   
“You coming with?” Tom blurts, high-pitched and embarrassing. “Did you miss the bit where I can’t seem to help insulting you like a prize idiot?”  
   
“Yeah, and I have a hunch that it’s totally because you’re bagel deprived. Come on.” Tom jumps when Joe’s hand lands on his shoulder, shoving his world out of alignment for a split second before dropping it back into place. There’s something there in the gesture, possibly an age-gap thing that should rankle but instead just thrills. And god, _god_ Tom needs food.  
   
“I know the best place,” Joe says, and Tom is so inclined to believe him that they’ve made it all the way to the door before he remembers—  
   
“Did you want a quick word with Leo?” Tom asks. Joe’s expression goes blank, questioning, and something hot and uncomfortable squirms in Tom’s belly. “Thought that might be why you were hanging ‘round chatting with me,” he covers quickly, only just managing to carry the whole thing off as a self-deprecating joke.  
   
“Oh,” Joe laughs, shortly. “Haha, no, don’t worry about it. I’ll catch up with him later.”  
   
“You sure?” Tom asks, but they’re already stepping outside. He can practically already smell the bagels.  
   
Joe finally slips into his brown leather jacket, acquiescing to the chill. “I promise,” Joe says, “you’re more interesting.”  
   
Which is a bit of a weird thing to say. And isn’t particularly fair to Leo—by definition A-List Hollywood Celebrities are more interesting, otherwise why would the masses press their faces to the glass whenever TMZ and the like pops on the telly? Joe has to be lying, to make Tom feel better. Which is kind of soul-crushing in and of itself; if Joe, who has known him all of two minutes, can pick up on the fact that Tom is an emotional clusterfuck, then it must be obvious to everybody on the entire planet.  
   
Joe smiles at him, and Tom tries not to be sick long enough to smile back.  
   
~*~  
   
They bump into Dileep and Ariadne—pardon, Ellen—on their way off the lot, a circumstance that shouldn’t be surprising or disappointing, but still somehow happens to be both (at least in Tom’s mind). Miss Ellen Page is charming and vivacious, (Canadian), and intelligent in a way that makes Tom think she might grow up to be the next Benedict Cumberbatch. Dileep in particular seems fascinated by Ellen, though he also seems fascinated by the prospect of texting someone under the table without being detected, a skill which he is woefully lacking.  
   
Tom kicks at his feet and narrowly misses hitting Ellen by mistake. “Who on earth are you being so stealthy about, Christ,” he demands through a heavenly mouthful of carbs and cream cheese. The table they’ve encircled is just barely big enough for their bagels—must be a New York thing, trying to be a Paris thing—which means Joe’s elbow keeps bumping his every time they take a bite. It’s not bad, it’s just distracting.  
   
Dileep’s eyes go wide. “Nobody.”  
   
“CHEERS, ROMANS,” Cillian’s voice rings out as he bursts through the doors of the (thankfully) noisy Deli. “Countrymen,” he adds, ruffling Tom’s hair and earning himself a yelp of outrage.  
   
“Oi!”  
   
“Hi, we haven’t properly met, I’m Cillian,” the Irishman spins off so fast Tom can barely follow; Joe’s grin is definitely on the uncertain side, but he accepts the handshake even though it means putting down his lunch. Ellen’s eyebrows march right up into her hairline. “Listen,” Cillian continues, “Tommy. Just spoke with Benny—”  
   
“Jesus _fuck,_ Murphy,” Tom snaps. “ _How_ did you even— You had lunch with us _once, six years ago._ ”  
   
“Sod off, I keep things,” Cillian says, half over his shoulder.  
   
Joe shifts in his seat, airy, uncomfortable laugh slipping from his parted lips. Tom has to forcibly clench his jaw against blurting out, _I would take your hand and drag you from this place in an instant._ Thank god for it being both bagel-o-clock and Tom’s 4 th year being sober, or Tom might have said those words aloud, no question. And it’s entirely possible that he would have meant them.  
   
“Who’s Benny?” Ellen asks, bless her.  
   
“Benny as in Benedict Cumberbatch?” Dileep asks, damn him straight to hell. “The guy you were in _Stuart: A Life Backwards_ with?”  
   
“You have not seen that movie,” Tom tells him. “There is no possible—“  
   
“It’s on youtube,” Dileep defends, eyes narrowed to hide their twinkling. “But no, I haven’t seen it. I’ve been reliably informed it’s like—wait, what’s the phrase—‘It’s like your best childhood friend…stabbing you repeatedly in the face. And you loving it anyway.’”  
   
Tom laughs and covers his face, briefly. “God, it is that. Who told you—“  
   
Dileep wiggles his phone. “The internet.”  
   
“Oh, yeah.” Joe nods. “Totally reliable, then.”  
   
“What were you doing talking to Benny?” Tom demands, rounding on Cillian, and definitely not as an excuse to turn his gaze from the laugh lines around Joe’s eyes.  
   
“He’s _concerned_ about you, as I suspected.” Cillian reaches unsuccessfully for Tom’s jaw before Tom slaps his hands away. “Call. Him.”  
   
“Is Benny your—“ Ellen raises her eyebrows, and Tom simply adores how well she’s holding her own at a table with more bagels than estrogen. Which is probably why he gives her a real answer.  
   
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No, Benny is not my—“ He raises his eyebrows as well. “Benny has the most delightful girlfriend named Olivia, and he’s far too brilliant to be seen with the likes of me anyway.”  
   
“Selling yourself short again,” Cillian growls, shouldering Tom right into Joe.  
   
“Oi! Sorry,” Tom quickly apologizes, before turning back to the table, steadfastly ignoring the way his arm feels imprinted with Joe’s shape. “But, no, do you knowhow close I came to not getting this part? Nolan called me up the dayofthe contract signing, asking if I knew how to ski.”   
   
“Oh come off it,” Cillian says, “Nolan wouldn’t’ve let you go for that.”  
   
“That’s right.” Joe snaps his fingers. “I forgot you were in the first _Batman_ with him.”  
   
“Yes I was,” Cillian’s scrawny chest puffs up. “And Ken Watanabe, and,” his voice drops to an obnoxious drawl, “ _Michael Caine_ —“  
   
Tom kicks him under the table with absolutely solid accuracy, and is not sorry in the slightest when the Irishman barely stops himself from tumbling off his seat.  
   
“Do you?” Ellen’s expressive little mouth quirks at Tom, a dare. “Know how to ski?”  
   
“Of course I bloody well don’t!” Tom cries over the eruption of laughter from the table. “What, do you think I was knobbing off to Switzerland every Christmas or just skiing through the streets of London all ‘All right mate, yeah, goin’ to the pub, just give us a sec to put on our skis?’”  
   
Joe’s laugh is a deep-bellied sound, all rounded and American and right down in his gut. It feels like he’s almost leaning into the place where their arms are touching as he rocks forward, says, “God, you are definitely, _definitely_ feeling better.”  
   
He is, is the thing. And Tom is not quick to blush, but he can feel the back of his neck getting hot, has to duck his head so Joe won’t see. “It’s these bagels,” he proclaims, lifting his in a toast. “And this cast. To good company.”  
   
Ellen is the first to pick up her breakfast and tap it against his, followed instantly by everyone else. “To good company.”  
   
 _Yeah,_ Tom thinks as Joe silently passes him the cream cheese. _Yeah, this’ll turn out all right._  
   
~*~  
   
“Are they hiring someone, do you think?”  
   
“Sorry, what?” Tom asks, doing his level best not to twist around and impale himself on any number of pins the nice German lady is wielding so very close to his vital organs. And…other things.  
   
“To teach you to ski,” Joe calls. He’s just on the other side of a thin curtain divide that might as well be non-existent. They’re both blokes, after all—though maybe it’s to preserve the modesty of the costume fitters. Not that the one pinning Tom’s costume had shown any qualms about stripping him to his knickers the instant he stepped through the door.  
   
“It’s either that or watch me waste film falling flat on my face.” Tom forgets himself and shrugs, earning a pin right to the thigh. “Ouch! Erm. Why do you ask?”  
   
“No reason,” Joe lies. It’s so delightful hearing the untruth, Tom feels as if he’s Eames discovering a new facet to a mark’s character. “It’s, ah. He didn’t mention anything to you about stunt doubles? They’re dragging you behind a snow machine at one point. I think you have to ski _backwards._ While shooting people.”  
   
“Aw, Joseph, concerned for my safety?” Tom thinks he hears a little cough from Joe at the use of his full name, but he doesn’t say anything about it. “Dunno,” Tom says, “Nolan never mentioned it. I think he wants things to look as real as they can, yeah? And I’m up for it, as much as they’ll let me— _ow!”_  
   
“Be. Still,” the costume lady orders, and gives his slacks a sharp yank.  
   
" _Entschuldigung, leibling_ ,” Tom apologizes. Her mutterings turn a shade lighter, but only fractionally.  
   
“Was that you?” Joe calls through their partition, though his voice shifts as if he’s on the move. “Do you speak German?”  
   
“Only enough to flirt outrageously and apologize afterwards,” Tom says, giving the seamstress a cheeky wink which she ignores with the fury of a thousand suns. “Now, what did you mean when you—“  
   
His voice dries up.  
   
Arthur is standing in the doorway, wearing Joe’s face and a suit that makes Tom feel like he’s sweating money just by standing in the same room with it. It fits him in places Tom hadn’t even known the man had, the sweet, narrowing point of his waist and the gentle flare of his hips, the small of his back which he shows when he turns around, arms outstretched for Tom’s inspection.  
   
“Well?” Joe asks, and his voice snaps Tom right out of it. It is _Joe_ , under there, not Arthur, though Tom is sure it could be Arthur in a split second if Joe wanted. It’s Joe in the soft flush creeping up under the crisp shape of his collar, Joe in his hair and the embarrassed flash of his dimples. “What do you think?”  
   
“…Perfect.” The word stays there longer than it should, a glass shape in that infinitesimal moment before it hits the ground and shatters. Tom is holding his breath. He hadn’t meant to.  
   
Or maybe he did. Maybe the way Joe is grinning is some sort of accidental instant karma. Maybe Tom is sincerely, genuinely fucked in the head, and if he can’t find some other way to shoot himself in the foot, well, apparently his brain will just invent something like the feeling of falling in love.  
   
“Oh my god,” Joe says, his nose wrinkling up delightfully. “Is that paisley?”  
   
“You only wish,” Tom tells him, “that you could pull this off.”  
   
Joe throws his head back when he laughs, flush rushing to curl up under his jaw. “Keep telling yourself that. Is that your jacket?” he asks, pointing to the lineup. “It looks like it was made from a carpet.”  
   
“Keep laughing,” Tom dares him, more than half-way serious. “I’ve seen your rack as well, darling. They’ll have you in sweaters soon enough, and I will laugh when you look like a posh little Catholic school boy just begging to be binned **.** ”  
   
“You—what?” Joe splutters, voice oddly strained. Tom leans in, despite the threat of pins, to get a closer look.  
   
At that moment Jeffrey—costume bloke—struts in, blithering about clothing integrity and character arcs and oh, he’s found the perfect watch for Eames, a huge brassy gold thing that fits around his wrist like the best kind of handcuff, an antique that will mean Tom’s head if he loses it.  
   
“Oh, that is lovely,” Tom barely has time to say, weight of the metal steady against his pulse, before Jeffrey turns on Arthur and says, “No. No, not in a million years. Those aren’t the buttons I chose. Where the hell is Nancy?”  
   
Joe is dragged off—not literally, Jeffrey would never grab a costume and the only bare skin Joe is showing is on his hands and the back of his neck. But the point is, he’s gone, long gone, Tom still reverently fiddling with the tiny brass dials on Eames’ watch before he realizes that he’d called Joe ‘darling.’  
   
Oh fuck.  
   
~*~  
   
“I was hoping you would call,” Benny growls around his yawn, “but I was also hoping you’d call at not fuck-off-o’clock.”  
   
“Time zones,” Tom says, wiggling his fingers as if Benedict bloody Cumberbatch is enough of a fucking genius to see them through the phone connection. Tom is chain smoking in the farthest corner of the lot from his trailer, because if he so much as glimpses a bed he’ll pass out, and he needs to get over this jet lag one way or another. It’s barely nine o’clock; if he can just stay awake until ten…  
   
“Hello?”  
   
Tom snaps to attention. “Yes, yes, I’m here.”  
   
“Tommy. Dearest.” There’s a muffled rustling of linens and murmurs, presumably Olivia kicking Benedict out of bed. Tom closes his eyes because they feel leaden and raw, and not because at one point in time that word would have made his chest clench hot. In Tom’s experience, there is nothing quite like harboring a massive crush on the unattainable straight boy to damage one’s self-esteem, and here he goes again, nurturing a brand new mortar-eating ivy with Joe’s name on it.   
   
Tom is _so tired._  
   
“Where are you?” Benny asks, completely oblivious to Tom’s hopeless mental state.  
   
“Lot,” Tom grumbles. “Smoking. Feel like a first year outside the bike sheds.”  
   
“Oh you had a bike shed, did you?” Benny drawls, delightedly.  
   
“Fuck off, we didn’t all go to sodding Harrow.” Tom takes another long drag, willing the nicotine to calm him down instead of jittering him up. “I bet your food magically appeared on golden plates while candles floated on the ceiling near the rafters where the owls swooped in with the daily mail.” He thinks about it. “Shit, talk about a fire hazard. All those birds near so many candles—“  
   
“Tommy,” Benedict cuts him off, “First off, I’m using that in an interview, you’re a fucking genius, and twice off—“ He takes a moment to sigh, god damn him, and Tom can feelhim slipping into someone else, possibly drawing back the curtains to gaze out upon the lightly drizzled, empty streets of London. _“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; / I lift my lids and all is born again.”_  
   
“…What the bleeding fuck is wrong with you,” Tom demands, flatly.  
   
“It’s poetry, you uncultured chav.” And now his feet are probably kicked up on some floral sofa in his flat—one of many, thanks to Olivia—but Benny is back with him, which is what Tom always used to tell himself is what counted. “Sylvia Plath—who was so beyond fucked in the head we won’t even get into it. But Tommy, do you notice you do this to yourself? You get into these fits where you’re mildly hopeful and then you plunge yourself into a seething pit of dread. It’s not healthy. And I’m _not_ saying you’re bipolar, of course you aren’t. I’m just saying that you seem to find it extremely difficult to stand up for what you want.”  
   
“Excuse me! I’m playing a vital role in a movie _guaranteed_ to be the next fucking hit,” Tom points out, dragging his outrage from the smoke slipping from his lips. “The first advance is enough to keep me and mine in style for the next year in London alone, and—the cast is ace! I’m making friends…” His voice wavers oh-so-tellingly, but Tom puts a hand to his face and carries on, pushing forward in some vain hope Benny won’t have noticed. “What do you think it is that I _want_?”  
   
“To be happy, you beautiful idiot,” Benny tells him. “Now, tell me about the cast.”  
   
Tom groans and sinks to a crouch for a moment, feeling physically twisted up in knots and dizzy from too much nicotine. He flicks the cigarette away, and very pointedly says nothing.  
   
“Is it DiCaprio?” Benny needles.  
   
“Oh god, are you—I would rather fuck a stray dog from Elephant and Castle tube station.”  
   
Benny giggles, sleep-giddy and undignified. This is the Benedict Tommy loves best, the prepubescent kid he must have been, probably still is somewhere under all his genius. “Lovely imagery, that. You always were top at words.”  
   
“Top at words—do you hear yourself?”  
   
It’s chilly out, cold seeping through Tom’s clothes quicker now that he doesn’t have a fag in his mouth to distract him. He plays the thought back and snorts, starts meandering back in the direction of his trailer with Benny’s voice bitching in his ear.  
   
“Tommy, it’s five in the morning,” Benny points out, half a groan. “I’m talking you through an existential crisis; please, focus.”  
   
“It’s Joe,” Tom hears himself blurt, words as muddled and grudging as his footsteps on the lot. “Joseph Gordon—something, oh bugger.”  
   
“Gordon-Levitt?” Benny asks.  
   
“ _Christ_ , has everyone heard of this boy besides me?”  
   
A wry chuckle slips down the phone line. “It’s called Google Auto-finish, Tommy, try not to be thick. And according to his bio, he’s hardly a boy.”  
   
“You’re just saying that to make me feel less of a pedophile,” Tom sighs, defeated.  
   
“He’ll be thirty this February,” Benny sings. “Oh, went to Columbia University, raised Jewish by parents Dennis and—”  
   
“Jesus Christ, _shut up._ This is the creepiest thing you’ve ever done for me, and that includes the time I woke up to you watching me sleep.”  
   
“You were recovering from a cocaine overdose, pardon me for being concerned.” His tone is flat with a real edge underneath it, and Tom feels like kicking himself instantly.  
   
“Benny, come on, love, I didn’t mean it.” Tom’s key is sticking in the lock of the trailer door, cheap print-off sign with his name on it taped to the window blocking the view inside. He hasn’t actually been in the trailer, yet, was told some poor assistant type would be responsible for collecting his bags from the hotel and bringing them here at some point during the day. “I know you worry, but I’ve been clean for ages, now—“  
   
Joe opens the door. From the inside.  
   
“Uhh,” Tom says, quite intelligently.  
   
“Hi?” says Joe, sounding and looking quite confused by all of this.  
   
“Listen,” Benedict’s voice chimes in Tom’s ear, “I think you should definitely shag this Joseph Gordon-Levitt person. Not simply because he’s been acting since he was old enough to talk, but have you _seen_ the _mouth_ on this boy? He also has cheekbones up to here, which I know you find attractive in a man.”  
   
“I will have to call you back,” Tom chokes out.  
   
“What? No, don’t. I’m going to bed. Seriously, buy the poor boy roses and suck his dick a little and he’ll be yours. Cumberbatch, out.” The dial tone sounds.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Tom stammers out, his brain still stuck in one constant loop of—Jesus, _roses,_ and— “Fuck, I seem to be saying that a lot today. Um.” And god, he’s _mortified_ , thankful only that the volume wasn’t loud enough on his phone for Joe to listen in, but—“The sign,” he says, pointing at it. “It says this is mine.”  
   
“That—huh.” Joe’s eyes are wide, mouth ( _Christ_ ) slipping open in surprise. “Shit. It’s gotta be someone screwing around, I swear that sign was different—fuck, I know it was—“  
   
And then he goes to prove it, steps down directly into Tom’s space so he can show that his key actually fits in the lock and turns it, and Tom is going to murder Cillian fucking Murphy if he has to do it in the manner of his forefathers—with potato famines and various plagues and socio-economic oppression.  
   
“Socio— _potato famines_?” Joe repeats, because apparently Tom said that last bit out loud. There’s a smile tugging at one corner of Joe’s mouth, and oh. Oh. Tom doesn’t know how he missed the fact that Joe is wearing glasses, thick-rimmed wide-paned monstrosities that just make Tom want to buy him a pocket protector and lick him all over.  
   
 _Happiness,_ Benny had said. _Happiness, you beautiful idiot._  
   
“Yes,” Tom says in reply to Joe’s query. “I will inflict upon him—er, potatoes. Joseph, darling,” he says, and it comes out so damn _smooth_ and nearly nonchalant he could kiss himself, “I don’t suppose you know which trailer actually does belong to me?”  
   
The only light in the lot is from a few scattered anti-trip lights and the warm glow emanating from behind Joe, so it’s impossible to tell if Joe’s cheeks just turned a shade darker. “Yeah, uh,” he says, reaching up to rub the nape of his neck. “It’s—just across the way, there.”  
   
It is, if Joseph is to be believed, literally a grand total of eight feet away. And he should be believed, Tom thinks, because there is the sign with Joe’s name on it, and scribbled underneath is a rather crude drawing of a smiley face with its tongue sticking out.  
   
“Brilliant,” Tom mutters. They may very well stumble into each other in the morning, hell every morning, when Tom is feeling gross and snappish and looks like jet lag fucked him dry and put him up wet.  
   
“Are you just getting in?” Joe asks, arms crossed conversationally over his ridiculous yellow t-shirt.  
   
“Trying to avoid temptation. Of sleeping,” Tom amends, unconsciously mimicking Joe’s pose. “Before ten, at least. I refuse to be this time zone’s bitch any longer than I have to.”  
   
Joe laughs, and Tom loves so much in that moment that he’s so easily amused. “I hate to break it to you, dude,” Joe says, “but it’s, ah, just barely 9:30. You gonna give up and crash a little early? I promise I won’t tell anyone.”  
   
Tom feels a little gut-punched by the time, which just testifies to how bone deep tired he is. “I haven’t sacked out before ten since…” He gives up the rest of the sentence in a sigh, pinching at the bridge of his nose before he waves the issue aside. “Never mind. I’ll see you bright and early, yeah? Sorry to have bothered you, again.”  
   
“I’ve got, uh—“ Joe blurts, a half-step in Tom’s direction. “I mean, I was just about to watch a Big Bang Theory, if you wanted to—come in. They’re about 22-minute episodes, so. It’d get you closer to ten?”  
   
 _Buy him roses,_ Benny’s voice whispers through Tom’s sleep-sticky mind, and he shakes it off before the rest of the thought can complete.  
   
“Yeah,” he says, “I mean, yeah, why not. Is it a religion vs. science documentary or something?”  
   
Joe snorts, but he looks so genuinely pleased that his offer was accepted, and his hand is warm on Tom’s shoulder as he ushers him inside, and Tom is too bloody tired to stumble into any potholes of self-doubt or whatever Benny called it. He lets himself lean into Joe a little, as he says, “Cheers,” and accepts the hot cup of tea from the brush of Joe’s fingers, and settles next to him on the soft leather sofa.  
   
~*~  
   
He doesn’t make it back to his trailer that night, but not for any fun reasons. He knows he giggled through at least four episodes and three cups of tea, but he couldn’t honestly tell anyone the plot of a single one of them, too caught up in Joe’s snorting laugh and the shine of his glasses in the TV light. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, but he hopes it was more fucking dignified than jerking awake at four in the morning tangled up in a purple knit throw with his face mashed into a drool-damp sofa cushion. He has to piss so bad he’s half-hard with it, and he is _not_ relieving himself in Joe’s trailer with morning wood, he just isn’t.  
   
So—he’s not particularly proud of it—but he steals Joe’s afghan and sneaks off like a one-night tart, shivering the whole eight feet of dawn-damp pavement to his own trailer, where he can take a leak in peace. Falling asleep isn’t any more complicated than collapsing into a heap atop the mattress, afghan scrunched up around his face and smelling of Joe.  
   
When his phone buzzes violently in his jeans three hours later, at least it’s a much more respectable hour of the morning to wake up hard.

~*~

Filming today is the first of a week of warehouse shots—first the pre-inception team-building exercises involving two hours of watching Dileep push Joe out of a chair; Ellen falling asleep, Ellen waking up; the planning process, pens and whiteboards and Arthur’s little black book.  
   
Joe doesn’t mention last night, and Tom doesn’t really get a chance to thank him. He’s not actually certain it would register with this Joe, this Professional Actor Joe who doesn’t goof around as often as Tom honestly expected him to, who topples onto a mat countless times and brushes himself off and says, “One more shot?” like the arms of the chair aren’t digging into his ribs every other fall.  
   
Still, they do eventually move onto other things. _Thank you for your contribution, Arthur._ And, _Excuse me for wanting a little specificity._  
   
Tom smirks, because Joe almost didn’t get it out this time, but Joe _rolls_ with it, has Arthur growl it again, “Specificity,” a dare, an _I bet you don’t even know what that means._ Tom barely manages not to throw his head back and laugh until after the director yells cut, Joe is so fucking brilliant.    
   
There’s a costume change in the middle of the day, and another two set for tomorrow—to show the passage of time. In the morning Eames’ shirt is gold, little brown circular patterns all over it, sleeves gone at the elbow. And Arthur—dear, stick-in-the-mud Arthur—is resplendent in a light grey suit with a black button-up beneath. Eames thinks it’s unforgivably posh, which is why he doesn’t glance at Arthur if he doesn’t have to. Tom, on the other hand, doesn’t look because if he does, he might very well sit Joe down on a folding chair and compromise its structural integrity.  
   
“Are you going to Crafts?” Tom asks when they call break, slinging an arm round Joe’s shoulders to help shake Arthur’s tight grip on them. “I’m famished. I could eat—a really large barn animal. Not sure which one. Like a cow, or an elephant or something.”  
   
“Yeah, just one sec, okay?” Joe asks, still a bit of Arthur’s resonance about his voice as he disentangles himself from Tom, eyes skimming ahead to where Christopher Nolan is bent over a camera.  
   
Tom follows him over because…well, it feels like he just promised Joe he would wait. He doesn’t get too close, of course, but with all the crew and equipment around he can’t help being well within hearing range.  
   
“Joe!” Nolan says, head snapping up, “Awesome. Do you know Tom Struthers?” Joe says no, and they shake hands and Tom tries very hard to will himself into a third plane of dimension out of common decency, only to come crashing back to earth when he hears Nolan say _Stunt Coordinator._  
   
It’s the hallway, then. The massive spinning hallway that everyone has been salivating over since Nolan had casually mentioned that he’d had the fucking thing _built_. Tom hadn’t even considered the possibility—had thought surely they would use green-screens and a million little pixels to pull this behemoth off, but no. God, if he’d known that, he’d have tried auditioning for Arthur himself.  
   
“Now, I just wanted to go over some things,” Struthers is saying, talking with his hands up and his chin down, as if Joe is a rather spirited horse instead of just…Joe. “I know Chris talked to you about some of this stuff but man, it’s gonna be _tough work_. Scrambling, harnesses, the whole shebang—but don’t worry, okay, I got a stunt double all lined up, anything you feel is too much—“  
   
“No,” Joe cuts him off, and Tom could have told them that much. He’d seen the way Joe’s spine pulled taught the moment ‘stunt double’ slipped out of Struthers’ mouth. And still Joe is smiling, eyes crinkled up at the corners as he tells them, “I promise—I’ll love it, I’ll do whatever needs doing, you won’t ever hear me complain about it.”  
   
Tom feels his own empty stomach shrink with shock. What a horrible thing to promise.  
   
“Yeah?” Nolan smirks, “Get it in writing.”  
   
The shrinking feeling intensifies into a harsh clench, and Tom wants nothing more in that moment than to give the great Christopher Nolan a hard shove, snap in his face that he _take it back_.  
   
“Joseph,” Tom hears himself say, watches as his arm reaches out to clasp Joe’s elbow, and fuck, they really were standing too close. “Sorry to steal him,” Tom smarms quickly and as genuinely as he can on short notice, “Jeffrey wants us out of costume before we eat. Twenty minutes and we’re back, yeah? Come on, darling, better get a move on.”  
   
“ _Darling_ ,” he hears Nolan repeat as he drags Joe away. “That’s fantastic. Can we use that in a line somewhere?”  
   
Joe is giving him a bemused, considering look when Tom checks to see if he’s angry, because shit, the man has a right to be. Tom doesn’t know what to do with this expression, though, like Tom has done something that revealed one of the cards up his sleeve. (Eames has many cards, hell, Eames has multiple decks; in comparison, Tom feels mildly transparent all the time. Especially around Joe.)  
   
“What was that?” Joe asks around a huff of laughter.  
   
Tom looks away, elsewhere, casing the joint as his hand slips down to Joe’s forearm. “Looking out for you, yeah? Nothing less. A man acting on an empty stomach? It’s unheard of.”  
   
“It’s very much heard of,” Joe protests, tokenly (if that’s a word), “Tom Hanks, _Cast Away_? For starters—“  
   
“Darling, we’re hardly marooned on an island in the middle of buggering nowhere, I have _seen_ the mini crumpets and they are calling my name.”  
   
“And that other thing.”  
   
“What?” Tom asks, attempting to follow his nose.  
   
“That thing you do,” Joe says. “Calling me ‘darling.’ Is that a British thing?”  
   
Tom…hesitates. He’s not even sure where to begin. Because when Joe says ‘British’ he really means ‘English,’ and if Tom gets into the intricacies of what the Scottish call their mates versus the American connotation of the _word_ “mate,” they may very well be here all day. And it isn’t what Joe means at all, of course; he’s asking if Tom calls everyone darling. He does not.  
   
He rounds on Joe, narrow-eyed and searching, all for show. All razzle dazzle misdirection to give him an excuse for leaning in too close, to stare Joe down and say as seriously as he knows how, “What if I was to ask if you fancy a bit of how’s your father?”  
   
His heart is pounding even though he _knows_ Joe won’t understand what he’s asking. That it’s fucking ridiculous and not even proper slang, and still if Joe said yes he’d take him right there in front of god and everyone and beg to cuddle afterwards.  
   
“I’d…say…my dad’s fine?” Joe says, awkward but not uncomfortable.  
   
Tom can’t help it. Sasha’s going to have his hand lopped off at the wrist, but it’s worth it, resting his hand on Joe’s dear head. His hair is all gelled down, too thick to muss up anyway, but he half-expects Joe to jerk away on principle. Not lean into it like he does, like something feline, like _What are you doing_ but playing along anyway because he trusts Tom to have something fun up his sleeve.  
   
“You’re a bit of all right, Joe,” Tom tells him, inflection all wrong for what the words should mean.  
   
Joe grins and is distracted, which was always the point. “Come on,” he says, slipping under Tom’s arm until it’s draped over his shoulders. “Let’s go get you a ‘crumpet.’ Weirdo.”  
   
It isn’t until much later in the day that Tom realizes that Joe had distracted him first.  
   
~*~  
   
In the next few days, the giant rotating hallway slips his mind (well, as much as a giant rotating hallway _can_ on this set, which is not as much as one would like). It’s always there, in the faint sounds of hammers and handsaws and whatever the hell else is used in making a massive spinning corridor, noises slipping through the lot when filming closes for the day. Joe lets him forget it—or, more precisely, Joe _encourages_ him to forget it by not mentioning that he will, within the next week, be dangling hundreds of feet above the air while wrestling with a man twice his size and the ground won’t even be steady under his feet.  
   
“It’s not like hiring a ski-instructor,” Tom points out to DiCaprio on coffee break, where they are stealthily replacing the sugar packets meant for Cillian’s latte with ones carefully repackaged with salt. “There aren’t any specialists in anti-gravity.”  
   
“Ahh,” Leo says, that weird verbal shrug that Americans do, “Dunno what to tell you. The kid’s got talent and dedication—have to respect it.”  
   
“And that’s another thing,” Tom plows over him, because Leo is more than a pretty face but just _barely_. “I’m reliably informed by the internet that Joe is nearly thirty, and yet everyone—including me, I’m not excluding, yeah—but fucking everyone calls him ‘boy’ or ‘kid.’ Either everyone in the world has a pretty severe age kink going on—“  
   
“ _Or,_ ” Leo cuts in, “he’s been acting since he was six and everyone’s always going to see him as that long-haired teenager in Third Rock From the Sun.”  
   
“Third rock from the where?” Tom demands. And then, when Leo explains it, “Why is it that American telly programs always sound like geological specials? Third Rock From the Sun, Big Bang Theory, 30 Rock, Jersey Shore… Is it some sort of fetish you don’t think anyone will figure out?”  
   
“Why do you always think everything is a fetish?” Leo chuckles.  
   
Cillian comes prancing up before Tom has to think of an answer, and they scatter with their caffeinated beverages to find a spot to watch the fallout.  
   
But Tom _does_ respect Joe, in ways he probably shouldn’t considering the scant number of days they’ve actually known each other. He respects Joe’s work ethic and intuition and his quick mind and even quicker smile; he just isn’t sure he trusts Joe to know his own limits, to know when to say stop. Tom respects because he feels that same driving need to be perfect beating under his own skin every second of every day, and it took years to figure out how to accept setbacks as anything other than abject failure. If Joe _hasn’t—_  
   
And it itches at the back of his neck, the worry that he might be projecting his own shit warring with the dread of what could happen if Joe pushes himself too far. It gives him that edge he needs for Eames to keep the barrier up between himself and Arthur, tense and invisible but still very present; every time Arthur manages to punch through it earns a scathing remark, a kicked chair, a very clear line in the sand: this is mine, that is yours.  
   
Tom knows the audience will pay more attention to Arthur, and they should. Joe is brilliant. He just doesn’t want Joe to be that poor young actor who was tragically maimed while trying to make this movie great.  
   
~*~  
   
The problem is getting Joe to talk about it, and not turn it into…that thing Benny suggested. Roses et al. Tom is genuinely concerned, as a genuine friend. But it’s so deceptively easy to talk about other things, all sorts of things, shoulder-to-shoulder with Joe in his trailer or at some posh restaurant watching their food zip by on a fancy twee conveyor belt. One moment he’ll be all braced for it, ready to say things, and Joe will lean into him and say, “I didn’t know you had a kid.”  
   
And out comes the phone with the photo slideshow and the embarrassing spit-up stories and Joe laughs and points and says, “You’re crushing him, oh god, [look at his face](http://pics.livejournal.com/queenklu/pic/000pef91),” and Tom will say, “Shut it, he loves it, what are you talking about,” and get Joe in a headlock, smushing his face against Tom’s chest as Joe gasps and tries to wriggle free.  
   
He accidentally tells Joe about Rachel in a deserted corner of the food tent one day when the rain won’t quit enough for them to get this one lousy outdoor shot they need before they can stop filming. His hands are pink, script pages damp, and Joe’s chin is tucked down in his coat collar like a turtle. He tells Joe about marrying Sarah like an idiot when he was twenty fucking two and stupid as the day is long, drinking himself to sleep and waking himself up with crack cocaine before rehab turned him around, and he doesn’t know why he’s telling Joe _any_ of this, he doesn’t know why Joe doesn’t run away screaming.  
   
“Jesus,” Joe says late that night, when the rain didn’t let up and Nolan called it quits and they’re sprawled across the couch with a take-out and a sacked-out Ellen Page between them, _Keeping Mum_ rolling almost silently on the screen. Ellen is using Tom’s arm as a pillow, which is the only reason he’s not moving it from where it’s draped over the back of the couch, fingertips brushing the nape of Joe’s hair.  
   
“Jesus,” he says again, drawing Tom’s attention from Maggie Smith murdering Patrick Swayze with a flat-iron. “How do you even—fuck.”  
   
“How do I fuck?” Tom whispers back, gleefully. “Same as every bloke, Joseph. Trousers down—“  
   
“Shut up, no,” Joe hisses, “I meant.” He stops, and Tom realizes that Joe isn’t looking at him at all. His dark brown eyes don’t seem to be looking at anything in particular, distant enough that Tom starts to reach for him before Ellen’s sleepy snuffle makes him still.  
   
“It’s gonna come out maudlin,” Joe says, nodding like he’s working himself up to it, “Hell, it is maudlin, so just. Forget I ever said anything. Tune it out when I tell you I don’t know why you hang around me, man.”  
   
It takes a lot of sifting through the fuzz in Tom’s brain that there was a real gem of something underneath the maudlinity and self-deprecating bullshit. “What do you mean, why do I hang around you?” Tom demands, just a little too loud for Ellen to sleep through.  
   
“Why the hell’re you _yelling_ ,” she grumbles, stretching into wakefulness, hands up near her face. “Damn it, did I fall asleep during your movie?”  
   
“Easy, love, it’ll keep,” Tom says quickly, standing, helping her to her feet. He doesn’t mean to shove her out the door, but he needs to speak with Joe alone immediately.  
   
“Aren’t you coming?” Ellen asks once her feet hit the pavement and she realizes Tom is not on her heels.  
   
Tom feels bad, but— “There’s just one thing,” he lies, “Joe and I have to go over for tomorrow. You go on.”  
   
“Ahh,” she says knowingly, tucking the edges of her coat closer around herself. “ _Right_. Because it’s _not_ like you start shooting Mombasa scenes with Leo tomorrow while Joe trips around on a high wire. Gotcha,” she finishes, sleep-drunk as she taps her nose.  
   
His stomach curdles, and he’s almost certain he hears Joe make some kind of sound. “You, my dear Ellen,” he says as calmly as he can, “are brilliant beyond your years. Now run along.”  
   
She gives him a smirky thumbs-up and toddles off, and Tom watches in the doorway until she makes it to her trailer down the lot, because he’s not _that_ much of an ass.  
   
Joe is making himself a cup of tea when Tom returns—or, to be more specific, Joe is putting water in a mug and fiddling with a tea bag. “You didn’t have to stay,” he says without looking up, half-laugh, half-shrug.  
   
“Pretty sure I did,” Tom tells him, voice quiet. He folds his arms, crosses his legs at the ankle, shoulder slouched against Joe’s stainless steel refrigerator. “Now,” he says, letting a smile slip in, “what’s this about not being good enough for me?”  
   
Joe scoffs, but doesn’t look up. “That’s not—“  
   
“Because you’ve got it backwards,” Tom cuts him off. “I think you’ll find that it’s the other way round.”  
   
“It’s not,” Joe mutters at his tea cup, surly and sleep-deprived. Tom wants nothing more in that moment than to tuck him into bed, but this is important. “You’re all—You’ve done so much! With your entire life, you’ve lived it, and fucked up and made bad decisions—seriously, you can’t tell me you don’t regret at least one of those tattoos—and you’re still, you know, _amazing,_ and. I’m Mr. Wholesome, Mr. Semi-Jewish Whitebread with a side of Never Had A Rebellious Teen Phase That Lasted More Than A Week, and just, _shut up,_ why are you laughing?”  
   
“’M not, I’m not, I don’t mean to be,” Tom says, biting his lip to keep the laughter at bay. “Oh, Joseph,” he sighs, and all the affection he feels has to be showing in his expression, even in the dull glow of the telly. “Yes, I have regrets. That you have _fewer_ doesn’t make you inexperienced, it makes you _cleverer than I am.”_  
   
Joe looks at him then, eyes wide and tired and a little lost, and Tom steps forward because he has to, not because it’s a conscious decision.  
   
“Look,” Tom says, drags his hands across his jeans and pretends they aren’t shaking. “Look, I’m about to make another mistake right now, and is that enough to stop me?”  
   
“I—“ Joe starts, and Tom cuts him off in a kiss.  
   
The only thing off about the whole experience is Tom’s first thought, which is, _Oh, god, Benedict Cumberbatch was right_ , which should never be the first thought you have while kissing anybody. It should be joyous things, light and fluffy things, hell, even horny things, but Tom has lost all of his things entirely, until every last one of them is _Joe Joe Joe Joe Joe_. It’s ridiculous, how warm and soft Joe’s mouth is, how it opens under Tom immediately, like a gasp, and before Tom can even think to move Joe’s tongue is slipping out to touch at Tom’s bottom lip, pushing at it, plushing it up.  
   
Tom shudders before Joe’s tongue is even in his mouth, helpless and jelly-legged and oh god, hard instantly, adrenaline pumping blood everywhere but to his brain. His hands are on Joe’s elbows of all places, Joe’s fingers clutched in Tom’s shirt like Tom might be stupid enough to go anywhere with this wonderful man kissing him. He can’t breathe; he doesn’t want to. It’s the hottest kiss of his life and their hips aren’t even touching.  
   
Joe is taller than him; it’s a shock he hadn’t noticed until this moment, and it sends him rocking back a step, breaking the kiss. But that’s a horrible turn of phrase, _breaking_ , when it just feels like a line pulled taut.  
   
Joe’s hair is wild, but Tom hasn’t touched it. His mouth is red and wet and that’s Tom’s fault. “Why did you—“  
   
“I have shit timing,” Tom blurts as explanation. “I make rash decisions and fall too fast and hard and god, Joe, I’m—“  
   
“—stop,” Joe finishes, gripping him by the side of his shirt so hard Tom can feel a seam tear, “Why did you _stop?”_  
   
The back of Tom’s head smacks against the trailer wall before the rest of him can register that Joe is _on him_ , has shoved him back and pressed so close it’s like he’s trying to climb inside Tom’s skin. His hips snug up like a question he has the answer to, leaving Tom scrabbling for purchase on any surface he can find before his legs give out.  
   
Something clicks with the first needy sound Joe makes. Tom is good at sex, Tom is really good at sex, and he wants to show Joe all the good things every mistake has led to. He wants to do every dirty thing he’s been torturing himself imagining for weeks, now, wants to make Joe feel so good he won’t care when Nolan uses a stunt double, because Joe will still be in Tom’s bed, blissed out and loved to within an inch of his life.  
   
His hands find Joe’s belt and tear at it, fumbling as Joe rocks his hips mindlessly against Tom any way he can get it, and Joe’s fingers tangle in the hair slipping into Tom’s eyes, smoothing it out of the way as he pants, “There you are, oh…” Like Tom was somewhere else—maybe he was.  
   
He’s here now, though, here and so viscerally alive it makes his skin feel too tight. Joe is everywhere, and Tom strips him without pause, revealing nothing less than miles and miles of pale, un-marred, un-inked skin. Tom wants to leave marks all over him, little signs that say _I was here and here and here_ , wants Joe to get tattooed just because the thought makes him dizzy.  
   
“So?” Joe asks, breathless as he demonstrates his sheer brilliance by managing to undo Tom’s buttons and walk backwards towards the bedroom without tripping. Tom can’t manage it, and he’s facing the right way.  
   
It takes two long seconds before he even realizes he’s been asked a question. “What?”  
   
Joe’s smile is wide and uninhibited; his hands make fast work of Tom’s belt and get his jeans about his thighs before Tom knows what’s happening. “Still think this is a bad idea?”  
   
Tom takes one look at Joe and says, “The worst, the absolute _worst_ ,” kisses Joe to shut himself up before he lets the rest of it slip: _I’m never going to be able to let you go._  
   
Joe lets out a noise like Tom said it out loud, soft and half-hurt, muffled against Tom’s claiming mouth as they fall back onto the bed. “Unnh,” Joe whimpers when Tom gets a hand buried in that wayward hair of his, arching him back so Tom can get at the gorgeous curve of his neck. “Wait, Tom—you can’t, make-up will kill me—“  
   
And Tom _knew that_ , he did, but Joe fries every last one of his synapses, even the ones that tell him whining like a dog being denied a treat is the most pathetic thing he could ever do. Tom whines, and Joe shudders out a laugh, guiding Tom’s head down until his lips brush Joe’s clavicle. “There,” he breathes, “you could—there.”  
   
Tom goes to fucking town. Kissing, biting, soothing the hurt with broad wet strokes of his tongue as Joe shivers beneath him and clutches his hair. _This will be under Arthur’s suits tomorrow,_ Tom thinks, light-headed and so fucking turned on he can’t see straight. _This will be a piece of Joe that Arthur can’t shake._  
   
Joe’s nipples are hard ruddy-colored nubs by the time Tom gets to them, tugs them into his mouth and Joe nearly bucks him off, too-sensitive from how badly he needs to come. It’s in the flush high in his cheeks, the way Tom’s thigh has been pressed against Joe’s erection all this time and, Christ, they still have their boxers on. Tom peels himself away from the muggy heat of him until he can get his hand down there, press his palm to the searing hot length of Joe beneath thin damp cotton. And it is damp, right at the head, and Joe swears like a seasoned vet, _Jesus shit fuck goddamn_ through his teeth as he arches back into the mattress.  
   
“Can I suck you? Fuck, please,” Tom begs, movement of his jaw rasping his stubble across Joe’s nipple; Joe’s fingers dig in hard at his scalp, a too-brief clench and release and Tom shudders at the thought of Joe holding on and fucking his mouth, this sweet darling boy using Tom like he wants to be used. “I’m good at it, I promise.”  
   
“Oh god,” Joe gets out, tugging clumsily until Tom lifts up to look him in his dark, wild eyes. “You could be the fucking worst blow job in the world, I wouldn’t—Tom, you get that mouth anywhere near me and I’ll—“  
   
Tom can’t stand it a second longer, shoves Joe’s boxers down under his balls and gets his hand wrapped around Joe’s straining cock, works him hard and slick and messy as he eats the noises bursting from Joe’s lips. Joe grasps at him, touching everywhere he can, his elbow over Tom’s shoulder, fist clutched in Tom’s hair at his scalp, thighs holding tight to Tom’s waist like they’re fucking—and god, he wishes they were. He wishes he was in any way prepared for any of this, for _Joe._  
   
Joe who fell into Tom’s life and grew into every nook and cranny, who’s shaking and jerking apart in Tom’s arms as the first splashes of come spurt up on Tom’s belly, smearing over the tattoo that says ‘ _Til I die.’_ Tom doesn’t know what to _do_ with this, fuck, he’s terrified of the kittenish contentment in the flush of Joe’s cheeks, has to bury his face against Joe’s throat and pant helplessly that he remembers, he won’t leave marks where anyone can see.  
   
His hips rut his cock against the wet mess of Joe’s skin because he can’t help it; he’s going to roll off and finish himself, but Joe catches him and rolls with him, bats Tom’s hand away when he reaches for the hungry ache of his cock. “I got you,” Joe whispers, not so much kissing as mouthing at Tom’s lips, brilliant grins slipping through each time Tom can’t help make a noise. “I got you, ‘s okay, please…?”  
   
Tom’s orgasm builds from the back of his throat to the tips of his fucking toes, feels like, snatches his breath away and drags it out in a desperate, needy whine. Joe grins at him, utterly delighted and almost—almost proud, and Tom loses it, spurts everywhere, twitching and gasping and clinging to Joe tight enough to bruise.  
   
~*~  
   
“Be careful up there tomorrow, yeah?” Tom puts his lips to Joe’s temple when he says it, half so Joe can’t see his face and half so the words will have less distance to travel to Joe’s brilliant mind.  
   
Joe shifts just enough to get a look at him when he says, “I think I’m insulted, Mr. Eames.” And it’s Arthur’s voice but it’s Joe’s sweet, dimpled grin; Tom’s heart rate doesn’t calm at all.  
   
“Mean it,” Tom grunts, rolling until Joe is bracketed beneath his arms, shuddering and gasping theatrically as Tom’s weight settles on his chest. “No, listen, all right?”  
   
Joe stops squirming all at once, but it’s not a calm stopping; there’s tension building in his thighs, in his arms even as he rests his hands on Tom’s ribs. Cautionary. Prepared. “I want it to look real.”  
   
“I know. Christ, love, I know,” Tom sighs, bumping their foreheads together. “Nolan wants it to look real and you want it to look real and the whole sodding cast wants it to look real but Joe, Joseph, _it can look real without being real._ That’s the whole premise of this fucking film, innit? It’s the bloody _reason_ for films.”  
   
Joe watches him steadily, chest rising and falling under Tom as strong and even as ever. “I’m going to do my best,” he says eventually, searching. How many people in his life have looked at him different for being young, for looking young, and still Joe doesn’t bristle and bark. He’s a miracle.  
   
Tom slips on Eames’ smirk to answer, but he knows his eyes are far too fond to pull it off. “I would expect nothing less,” he says, stroking a stray curl of dark brown hair from Joe’s eyes. He gives in, presses sweet kisses to Joe’s face until Joe laughs and shoves him off, rolls him over and climbs on top, shifting until his ass is nestled perfectly in Tom’s hands as he kisses deep and warm and steady.  
   
“Remember we were talking about regrets?” Tom asks later, when he’s sure Joe is at least half-asleep in his arms, his even, quiet breaths puffing out over the comedy-tragedy masks inked into Tom’s chest. He’s so quiet and still—so mind-bogglingly, endlessly dear—that Tom can’t find it in himself to finish the thought aloud, can’t even remember the words he’d meant to use. Instead he watches Joe until his eyes refuse to stay open a moment longer, and he finally drifts off to sleep.  
   
~*~  
   
Shocker, the budget does not actually involve flying Tom, Ken Watanabe, and Leonardo DiCaprio to Mombasa. Tom was disappointed for all of the five seconds before he realized he was missing out on roughly a million years of flying, several uncomfortable injections, and being thousands of miles away from Joe.  
   
All this, of course, realized before he’d given in and wanked Joe off in his trailer. Now, it’s. It’s not that he’s avoiding Joe. It’s definitely, definitely not that. It’s only that when he thinks about Joe in the rotating hallway his insides implode into one sweat-hot knot of irrational terror, and when he’s working, Eames doesn’t actually give a fuck.  
   
(He’s sure that’s not true. Eames cares a great deal; it’s what makes him so splendid at forging. One of his biggest problems with Arthur, in Tom’s opinion, is that Arthur doesn’t seem to care about anyone beyond what they can accomplish in a dream. Eames always has a heart on his sleeve—doesn’t matter if the heart is 100% his own—while Arthur’s heart is in a locked box somewhere, refrigerated and vacuum-sealed.)  
   
But anyway, “Mombasa” is, in this instance, Lot 12, which is as far from buggering fuck all as anything, so they might as well be in sodding Africa. It was used in at least one _Mummy_ movie, and possibly Hallmark’s version of _Arabian Nights_ , but Nolan as ever has swept through and turned this narrow generic marketplace into the heart of Mombasa, every cloth worn and weathered, every fruit in the stands researched and perfectly arranged. Even some of the smells are authentic. Those are real donkeys down there.  
   
Tom hasn’t seen Joe in three days—that isn’t his fault. And it is, god it is, because Tom’s greatest curse is never being able to hold onto what he wants. The chips flip over his fingers, one-two, one-two, and for the last three days Tom has been escorted to and from his trailer like a high profile murderer being escorted to solitary, and he’s been too exhausted to complain and anyway, Joe’s trailer has always been dark, but that isn’t—  
   
“You can rub them together all you want, they’re not going to breed,” Leo says. Tom’s gaze snaps up, thrown.  
   
And right, they’re _filming_ , this is Tom’s fucking _job_. It has nothing at all to do with Joe.  
   
Tom shrugs Cobb off and slips into Eames in the same movement, dropping his chips on the table. “You never know.”  
   
Eames loses. Eames always loses.  
   
Yet somehow in the walk from the table to the bar, Eames finds himself with a full rack of chips. Tom hates him a little, for his ability to always come out on top. Eames might appreciate things more if he wasn’t allowed to keep them.  
   
~*~  
   
On the fourth day, they wrap Mombasa, and Tom is brought back to his trailer at the unheard of time of twelve noon, where he eats everything he can get his hands on in under five minutes and sleeps for a long, blessedly silent hour before someone calls him for make-up. It’s a street scene today, standing at a deserted intersection looking thematically symbolic, and Tom deliberately doesn’t think about anything but his lines, and how delightfully awful his brownish carpet-y blazer is. He doesn’t even think about the rest of the cast, so it’s a wonderful surprise when Ellen launches herself into his arms.  
   
“What have you brought me from the wilds of Africa?” she asks when he sets her back on the ground. She’s wearing another of Ariadne’s scarves like a champ, even though she’s told him that neckerchiefs bother her on a fundamentally Canadian level, which demands that scarves cover both the front and back of your neck.  
   
Tom takes her hands, gallantly. “Sand in places you don’t wish to know about?” he offers, and is rewarded with a grin in the split second before Dileep greets him with a rib-cracking hug.  
   
“Hey, I was gone too,” Leo pouts, looking at Ellen. Ken just straightens his cufflinks.  
   
Tom shouldn’t be so shocked to realize that he’s missed these people, that he’s made _friends_ here, not just acting acquaintances.  
   
Ellen socks him in the arm, jolting him out of it. “Is your cellphone _broken?_ ”  
   
“Ow, by the way, and yes, technically it is.” He meant it to come out a little haughty, not a question. “This continent doesn’t believe in the Orange Network.”  
   
“So get a cheap burner phone, what’s wrong with you?” Dileep frowns. Tom realizes too late that they have him pinned in against a light post, and Leo and Ken have wandered tactfully away. The crew is just putting the finishing touches on the set, and Christ, Tom’s pulse kicks up three notches in the space of a second.  
   
“Joe will be here any minute,” Ellen says, voice low, echoing his thoughts so completely that Tom wonders dumbly if she can see inside his head. “This is just a heads up, but—don’t go roughhousing with him, okay?”  
   
Everything narrows down to one frozen point. “Is he _hurt?”_ Tom snaps, “Why didn’t anyone—“  
   
Fuck, he hadn’t even—he’d just assumed word would reach him on Lot 12 if anything—  
   
“Jesus, Tom,” Dileep says, eyebrows bunched together on his forehead, “Joe’s fine, why are you sheet wh—ohhhhh.” Recognition blooms across his face.  
   
Ellen pokes Dileep and holds her hand out, palm up. “You owe me twenty bucks.”  
   
“Tell me,” Tom growls, “what the fuck is wrong with Joe.”  
   
“He’s just a little sore from the harness.” Dileep stops and covers his face with his hands. “Oh god, now everything sounds so dirty.”  
   
Ellen grins. “I know, right?”  
   
“ _Roughhousing_ ,” Dileep moans. “Did you mean—“  
   
“No, you big baby, I meant—“ She sighs as if she despairs of him, and fixes Tom with a stern look. “Don’t go grabbing him like you normally do.”  
   
“I don’t. Do I?”  
   
Ellen and Dileep give him matching looks which say that was the single most stupid question they have ever heard in their lives.  
   
Suddenly Nolan’s voice rings out across the set, calling for them to go find their marks and that can only mean Joe is _here_ , somewhere in the press of crew and equipment. Tom lets them all spin by, air catching at the back of his throat as his nerves ramp up to an erratic buzz. This is no good for acting, he’ll be utter _shit_ , Eames won’t stick to him when he’s like this, and god, oh god, perfect Joe will watch him stutter and fail. He’ll—  
   
Joe appears like something out of a fairy story, suddenly there between one beat and the next. His hands are tucked in the dark grey slacks of his suit, deep chocolate shirt beneath the pale cream of his jacket. He’s watching the crew, completely at his ease. He doesn’t seem to be looking for Tom at all.  
   
Missing Joe hits Tom all at once, with a fierceness he never expected. And anyway, _‘Seem’ is the key word,_ Tom tells himself, up on his toes, bouncing with nervous energy. He makes no illusions about staring at Joe’s profile, sure if he just keeps looking one moment longer Joe will notice. Joe will turn and see, and their gazes will lock, and Tom will have some fucking clue of what’s going on. If Joe is angry with him, at least he’ll have something to go on.  
   
“Right,” Nolan says, clapping once to get their attention before rubbing his hands together. “From the top? Eames’s line, _We could split the idea into emotional triggers._ Annnnnd action!”  
   
It happens fast enough that Tom has to cut his gaze to the ground to fit into Eames as best he can on short notice. And they’re off.  
   
Acting wrenches his mind from the matter as forcibly as pulling a tooth—Joe isn’t even here anymore to worry about. He’s all Arthur. Arthur, who only looks at Eames when he does something extraordinary, but watches everyone constantly out of the corner of his eye. Arthur, who might have always been this tense but never this stiff, moving slow when he has to or not at all if he can help it.  
   
Tom is only grateful that DiCaprio fumbles a line before he does, relief doubled by Nolan saying, “Don’t worry about it—there’s something glitching with the sound, anyway. Hold on one sec, everybody.”  
   
It’s never one second in show business, and Tom is hopelessly restless.  
   
He likes shadow boxing, likes the dance of fighting without the pain of being struck—though sometimes the payoff of endorphins is worth it. Not now. Tom just needs to work the jitters out, bob and weave a bit, working through one of the stage fights he still remembers. He brings his shoulders up, arms up, hands up, up on the balls of his feet as he moves. Jab, jab, uppercut. _Chtah chtah chtah_.  
   
Joe is watching him, expression deceptively open. So very Arthurian. Something in Tom tightens, like the not-quite-breaking of a kiss.   
   
“Come on,” he says, surprised at how close they are before he hop-steps out of reach. “Come on, Joseph. Mits up.”  
   
Joe’s eyebrows lift. “My mits are good, thanks.”  
   
“It’ll loosen you up,” Tom says, darting in to brush his knuckles against Joe’s shoulder before dancing out of the way. He leaves it there, half a dare, hands up to protect his face in case Joe really decides to take a swing at him.  
   
Joe’s first move is fast for all that it’s stiff, a feint-and-swing that Tom dodges easily, delightedly. If Joe’s body language said _frustrated_ or _angry_ Tom would stop this immediately, but it just—it isn’t. Joe doesn’t want to hit him, throws easy jab after easy jab that Tom gently shoves away. And it’s breathtaking, watching Joe move, watching his stiffness ease out as he moves with Tom, slipping in and out of each other’s space as fluidly as a dance. Their eyes are locked, as natural as breathing.  
   
Dimly, Tom is aware of Ellen egging them on, taking bets over Ken Watanabe’s low rolling chuckle, Dileep’s laughing incredulity as Joe disregards his sideline coaching and barely ducks in time. His hand folds over Tom’s knuckles and stays there the briefest second before he pushes away. Tom keeps his head low, hiding the curl of his smile behind his loosely curled fists.   
   
[They circle each other](http://media.photobucket.com/image/jgl%20tom%20hardy/xObscurexOmenx/Inception/ADORABLEPLAY-FIGHT.png), and Tom sees the smile gathering in Joe’s eyes. And some muscle in Tom’s chest eases up, too.  
   
~*~  
   
The scene wraps quickly, or maybe it doesn’t—Tom’s sense of time is shot. Every second closer to getting Joe alone drags and quickens simultaneously, fast because it’s coming, slow because it might not be. Joe could be whisked off to film more high-wire feats of bravery, or he might not want to speak with Tom at all.  
   
Tom will wait, if he has to. Waiting is the easy part.  
   
“Are you hungry?” Tom asks Joe the moment Nolan sets them free. “Would you like to grab a bite with me? Catch me up on all that I missed while I was trapped in the heart of darkness, pining for you?”  
   
He means it to sound like a joke, but it winds up sitting there, awkward and lonely, while Tom hunches his shoulders and attempts to look casual.  
   
“Oh,” Joe says finally. “That’s where you were. Undercover as an ivory tradesman secretly bent on retrieving a madman from deep in the Congo? Here I kind of thought you were just in the trailer across from mine.”  
   
Tom flinches. “Would you have preferred I come barging in at arse-o’clock demanding your attention?” he asks, and he means it. If Joe had wanted him to, Tom would have joined him every night. Even if it was just for sleeping.  
   
Joe must be able to tell; he doesn’t snap back like Tom half-expects him to. Instead his gaze slips sideways and he sighs, frowning, and oh _god—_  
   
“Tom? Sorry, can I call you Tom?”  
   
Tom goes absolutely stock fucking still as Michael Caine appears in his line of sight, holding out a hand for Tom to shake.  
   
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Michael _fucking Caine_ says, all friendly brilliant face and Tom can’t think in actual words at this moment in time. “I just wanted to quickly drop by and say what a fan I am of yours.”  
   
“A fan—“ Tom squeaks. He’s not proud of it. But it happened. “—mine, you’re a fan of—oh my god, hello, yes, call me Tom,” he fumbles out and shakes Michael Caine’s hand too hard and far too long to be considered a reasonably sane person.  
   
Michael Caine just grins, nose scrunching up in either delight or yet another profound contribution to his acting repertoire. “You know I saw you on some BBC show a couple years ago—god, I can’t remember which it was. You played such a tough guy, I tell you,” and he’s talking to Joe now, “I tell you, I was stunned by this man. You,” he says to Tom, “are one of my favorite British actors.”  
   
“Oh my _god.”_ There is nothing whatsoever controlled or masculine about Tom’s voice. He feels like he might cry or faint; instead he blurts, “ _Without a Clue_. You and Ben Kingsley. I fell in love with you on the spot. I have never laughed so hard. When you poke the corpse, and you’re all _It is my opinion—_ “  
   
“— _That he is dead_ ,” Michael bloody sodding dazzling Caine finishes the line for him, and Tom makes a noise he will deny to his dying day. “Haha! Nobody ever seems to remember that movie! Shall we make a coffee date sometime, you and I? We can tell each other how brilliant we are.”  
   
“Yes, oh my god, yes, that would be—amazing, thank you.” He holds the offered business card in his hands like the fucking Holy Grail, says some things he will never remember as Michael Caine waves goodbye and toddles off.  
   
Joe is staring at Tom like he’s grown a rather large petunia out of one ear. “Well that,” Joe says, clearing his throat just a little. “That just happened.”  
   
“Joe,” Tom begs through his grin and his fingertips, “please don’t break up with me today, _Michael Caine likes my work._ ”  
   
“Is that what--?” Joe eyes are wide, and then he shakes his head and grabs Tom’s elbow and starts leading him away, muttering, “Tough guy, right. How are you so fucked in the head?”  
   
“I couldn’t honestly tell you,” Tom babbles, staring at the business card. “Joe, I have a coffee date with Michael Caine!”  
   
“I hope you two will be very happy together,” Joe says, and it’s a laugh, _sort of_ , but not the right kind and Tom spins and stops them dead in their tracks, throwing his arms around Joe and crushing him in a hug.  
   
“Ow ow _ow ow_ ,” Joe stammers, and Tom drops him instantly, contrite.  
   
“I’m so sorry, darling,” Tom says, running his hands gently but restlessly down Joe’s arms, his ribs. “Ellen warned me you were a bit banged up—“  
   
“It’s nothing,” Joe says, but he doesn’t shrug Tom off. He’s leaning into the touch just a little, just enough that Tom can feel it, not enough to hurt him.  
   
“Are you all bruised up under your thousand dollar suit?” Tom asks, only mostly teasing, and rides the euphoria right into snogging Joe in front of god and fuck it, everybody. They could be surrounded by paparazzi, Tom hasn’t a clue or a care in the world. Joe’s mouth is on his, and Tom keeps forgetting how to kiss and winds up slipping out of reach so he can duck and hide the full force of his grin.  
   
“I’ll have you know,” Joe says, only the smallest hint of breathlessness indicating that there’d been any snogging done at all. “This suit cost far more than a thousand dollars.”  
   
Tom tips his head back and laughs. There doesn’t seem to be anyone around, which is a miracle, though Tom has the most intense and ludicrous feeling that it wouldn’t matter to Joe if there were. He seems to only have eyes for Tom, all crinkled and genuine and charismatic. And brown. He kisses Joe again because he can’t help it, and Joe grabs him by the lapels of his truly disgusting jacket and hauls him in closer.  
   
“Fuck, I’m not mad, I just missed you, okay?” Joe murmurs between kisses.  
   
“All right, that’s it.”  
   
Tom all but picks Joe up and throws him over his shoulder in his attempt to get them to Joe’s trailer faster than the speed of light, wherein he strips Joe of his costly suit (“Exchange rates, love, am I bothered?”) and shoves him under the scalding spray of his shower, gently working at Joe’s aches and pains until the man mewls and keens and comes all over the tacky tiles of his trailer shower walls. Tom can barely hold him upright, fumbles and slips them out of the bathroom and crashes onto Joe’s bed. Joe is so fucked out and blissful and sleepy it’s almost all Tom needs to tumble over the edge and into their tangled hands working Tom’s cock. He comes with a sigh, with his lips against Joe’s messy wet curls.  
   
“I’m not an irrationally codependent person,” Joe mumbles, mouth mashed against Tom’s clavicle.  
   
“Your octopus-like grip on me says otherwise,” Tom chuckles, and drags Joe back down when he makes to pull away. “Darling, I like it. Don’t move.”  
   
Joe melts into him, boneless and gangly, content little noises slipping free as Tom traces the hard earned bruises with his fingertips.  
   
“Is this what happiness feels like?” Tom asks, genuinely curious.  
   
Joe sighs and hauls himself up on his elbows, shifting until they’re all but nose-to-nose. He squints at Tom, playing serious. “Butterflies in your stomach?” he demands, and waits for Tom to nod along. “Chest a little tight? Feel like you might float away and/or wake up any moment?”  
   
“Yes to all of the above, Dr. Freud,” Tom says, grinning so wide his face might split with it.  
   
“Symptoms are consistent with happiness,” Joe tells him mournfully, “I’m afraid I must also confirm the diagnosis of your severe case of brain damage, that you couldn’t figure it out on your own.”  
   
“I’m sorry,” Tom says, dissolving into snickers half-way through, “I couldn’t hear you over the sound of how brilliant Michael Caine thinks I am.”  
   
“Oh my god, seriously, what is your giant man crush--?”  
   
“Oi, I’ll show you giant man crush,” Tom says and flips them, catching himself at the last second on his hands and knees. “Right,” he says, amending the plan, “imagine I’m crushing you right now. Still sore, love?”  
   
Joe’s eyes roll. “The sex wasn’t _that_ good, Mr. Eames.”  
   
“It disturbs me when you call me Eames in bed,” Tom says, completely unconvincing, as he sits back and arranges Joe how he wants him.  
   
“What are you doing?” Joe asks, head cocked to one side as Tom bends one of Joe’s legs up and starts gently pushing it back towards Joe’s chest. Joe doesn’t fight him one inch, and it makes Tom all tingly (all right, the view doesn’t hurt. Not at all). “I dunno about you, but I am not eighteen anymore.”  
   
“Could’ve fooled me,” Tom teases, disregarding the fact that Joe had, upon their first meeting. “These are stretches, love, you may have heard of them.”  
   
“Ah, yes,” Joe nods, coughing to hide his discomfort as his muscles pull tight and relax. “I think I read a book about them once.”  
   
Tom hums absently, watching Joe’s complete trust in him play out across his features.   
   
“Maybe Nolan will cast us in his next Batman film,” Tom says unthinkingly, hands skimming down Joe’s thighs as he leans in almost close enough to kiss. He thinks Joe was wrong about this being called happiness, when ‘happiness’ just seems like a fucking inadequate term, really.  
   
Joe snorts, dimples etched deep. “Yeah, like that will ever happen.”  
   
But he kisses Tom anyway, and Tom lets the warmth of whatever this is wash over his skin and envelope them both.  
   
~*~  
   
“Hold up, hold it, just one—sorry, guys,” Nolan says, scowling down at his script, free hand tugging fretfully at his hair. “Sorry, I just—the scene’s not working. Nobody panic, it’s the writing, not the acting.”  
   
“It’s not you, it’s me,” Tom laughs in Eames’s rolling chuckle, stretching lazily upon the carpet where Arthur had been hooking them up to the PASIV in Fischer’s hotel room. “Why does that sound familiar, darling?”  
   
“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames,” Joe drawls, dropping down to sit cross-legged beside him. His eyes are hot and dark, sweet and mischievous, and as the world falls away Tom is left with the certainty that if they were home—as home as a movie set trailer could be—Joe would be smoothing a gentle hand over Tom’s hair, just to watch his drowsy smile upside-down. Surprisingly, sleep had not been much of a priority last night.  
   
“Hey,” Nolan says, snapping his fingers to catch everyone’s attention, “Here’s a thought. Tom, could you try saying Cobb’s lines for this next bit? Do you mind, Leo?”  
   
DiCaprio waves him off with a, “Whatever you need,” as Tom’s eyebrows arch high.  
   
“Don’t worry about blocking,” Nolan tells them, “Just, you know, run it through for me.”  
   
“All right.” Tom clears his throat and slips into Eames. Eames, who likes to pretend he doesn’t trust a soul, but you don’t see him letting anyone else slip an IV needle into the crook of his elbow. He trusts Arthur to do what needs to be done, trusts Arthur maybe a bit too much, and he can feel that vulnerability bubbling up behind his motivation to warn Arthur—  
   
“Security’s going to run you down hard.”  
   
Arthur watches him all the time, more than _anyone,_ Eames realizes like a kick all its own, a jolt that makes it hard for him to lie still under Arthur’s scrutiny now. The point man’s head tilts, considering, warmth bleeding through all his defenses as he says, “And I will lead them on a merry chase.”  
   
“Just get us back before the kick,” Eames tells him, a flimsy little buffer as all his face-cards come spilling out of his sleeves.    
   
Arthur sighs, and Tom feels Joe’s fingertips brush the top of his head. “I’m on it.”  
   
“Yeah,” Nolan says, yanking them out of it. “You know, with a little tweaking? I think this might work.”  
   
Tom leans into the ghost of Joe’s touch, and settles in to study Joe’s dimpling grin. He’s onto something, that Nolan fellow.  
   
~*~   
   
 _[After months of rumors,](http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/03/20/joseph-gordon-levitt-batman_n_838069.html) Variety’s Showblitz reports that the “Inception” and “500 Days of Summer” star, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, has officially signed onto the cast of Christopher Nolan’s third Batman film, “The Dark Knight Rises.” Gordon-Levitt joins the star-studded roll call of Christian Bale, Anne Hathaway, Michael Caine, and “Inception” cast mate Tom Hardy._

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> This fic can be found [here on LJ](http://queenklu.livejournal.com/299350.html) if you're interested!
> 
> eta: There is now a sequel (of sorts) to this fic which can be found [here](http://queenklu.livejournal.com/344837.html) on LJ, or [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/275278) on AO3--enjoy!


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